


Coming Down

by ABeckoningCat



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABeckoningCat/pseuds/ABeckoningCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff has the dubious pleasure of learning firsthand the true nature of her teammates when they're sick, but Clint is the only one whose habits she know intimately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Down

As the only woman teamed with four – occasionally five – men, Natasha Romanoff had the dubious pleasure of learning firsthand the true nature of her teammates when they were sick.

Thor and Steve barely counted, for if it was even possible for Rogers to get sick he certainly never let on, and while she assumed Asgardians had their own unique afflictions (none of which she cared to witness firsthand), the demi-God never seemed to be in residence when he was in anything less than obnoxiously boisterous good health.

Stark was, without surprise, the worst patient imaginable, his behavior inversely proportionate to the actual severity of his symptoms.  Cracked ribs, a punctured lung and severe blood loss were barely enough to distract him from his workbench, but a sniffle – no matter how slight – seemed to land him in a days-long sprawl across Pepper’s lap, even and especially when she was preoccupied with more important concerns.  Only once had Natasha had the misfortune of minding Tony while he was ill – or something like ill – purely as a favor to his haggard and overworked girlfriend.

“You’re ridiculous,” she’d informed the man, standing impassively over him as he lay sprawled on his Italian leather couch, giving her serious Precious Moments eyes.  “Are you even sick?”

“Dying,” he agreed, and stretched an arm up to rattle the ice in his tumbler like a man appealing for water in the desert. “…scotch?”

Banner, pragmatic and retiring to a fault, merely made himself scarce when he was ill.  Whether this was through an actual desire to be alone, a reluctance to infect and subsequently have to treat his team members, or simply because he feared the giant green repercussions of not feeling particularly well, Natasha didn’t know.  When the situation arose, she was usually leery enough of the latter possibility that she gave him whatever space he required to feel comfortable.  She liked Bruce –  _genuinely_  liked him — but she also liked Dobermans… that didn’t mean she disturbed them or poked them with sticks when they seemed disinclined towards company.

And then there was Clint.

Barton required the least amount of acclimation, for – though generally a healthy sort – Natasha at least had some experience with a sick Hawkeye.  Despite his generally good nature, for whatever reason illness – true illness – seemed to steal away everything she secretly loved about the archer.  He was a shadow of himself and, like an animal, secreted himself into places others were unlikely to look for or find him.

Sometimes, if she was very lucky, she caught him before that ever happened.

This was the case as she dragged herself back from training, crossing through the common room en route to the residential corridors.  It was near on twilight, the hour at which most of her teammates were either out or preparing to be out, and it looked as if she might have the entire evening to herself… plenty of time to work her way through Stark’s collection of DVDs for every movie that starred a redhead.  Her personal project.

From the dim sitting room, however, there was a not unfamiliar sound and a slight bob of motion – the breathy, squeaking sound of Clint Barton stifling a sneeze.

It brought her up short, and for a moment Natasha let her eyes adjust to the ambient light, making out the man’s head and shoulders as he relaxed in a corner of the couch.  The TV was on but the sound low enough that she could barely make out the murmur of dialogue.  Clint could hear it perfectly, of course… he would make some woman the world’s most considerate insomniac husband.

“Clint?”  When he didn’t respond she stepped nearer, leaning over the back of the couch to study his face.  Still nothing, his eyes glassy as he focused on the screen.   Her hand settled carefully on his shoulder.  “Hey.”

She felt the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, nearly snapping her hand back as he startled, turning a look up at her.  His eyes were blue as stained glass, stark and fever bright.

“Nat.  Hey.”

“You’re not going out with everybody?”

“Not feeling it,” he dismissed quietly, returning his attention to the TV.  Having been paying only the vaguest attention to what was on, he began shifting through the channels, hunting for nature programs. “You?”

“Last time Tony picked we ended up at a strip club.  Actually…  _every_  time Tony picks we end up at a strip club.  I get my fill of tits and ass looking in the mirror.”  This should have at least earned her at least a soft huff of laughter, and when he only nodded at the screen she touched his shoulder again.  “Clint, you OK?”

 “Fine.  Why?”

“Because you’re doing your Invasion-of-the-Body-Snatchers thing again, and it’s kind of freaking me out.”  She dropped her bag to the floor, rounding the couch to sit next to him, and for the first time he looked at her with something other than vague recognition.  His eyes were like beacons in the dark, febrile and slightly edgy despite the drowsy overcast of his expression.

“I’m fine, Nat.”

“Right, I know.  So just humor me.”  She curled the backs of her fingers to his forehead, though she already knew what she’d find.  He had an aura of heat around him, breath quicker than it should have been, and as Natasha reached out to lay her hand at the center of his chest – lightly, possessively, a habit she’d adopted only since Loki’s discovery that the archer had _Heart_  – she felt the scissoring, stage-fright rhythm beneath.  “Jesus, Clint…”  He was coal-fired, radiating miserably in this small, empty nest he’d made for himself on the couch.

“I’m  _fine_ ,” he repeated his mantra, managing to drawl it out in a way that suggested she was the one being difficult.  Natasha was typically willing to accept his dismissal of anything, from difficult conversations to the occasional cracked rib that would ultimately heal itself, but this was somehow different, more intimate in nature.  The archer would sit out here smoldering and staring lifelessly at the television if she let him, and she would… what?  Go back to her room?  Shower and pretend that she didn’t know he was sick?

She began pulling at his arm, and felt the muscles beneath her hand tense, grow rock-hard with resistance.

“Nat, what are you doing—I’m watching TV.”

“Really?  What’s on?”  She leaned sharply in front of him when he tried to see around her, green eyes glaring.  “ _No peeking_.”

“It’s….”  Fuck.  For awhile it had been  _Sabado Gigante_  on Telemundo, then he vaguely remembered some sort of competitive cooking show, but then it all began to run together.  His jaw shifted, forehead creased as his eyes turned up at her.  He took a wild guess, “…Sharktopus.”

Natasha looked momentarily startled, glancing behind her, then back at him.

“It’s Rachel Ray.”

“So I was close.”

“ _You’re going to bed._ ”

Clint resisted, but now with a tired grin, trying to wrest his arm free of the redhead’s grasp.

“Come on—Nat… look at me, there’s nothing wrong—“

“I  _am_  looking at you,” she dropped any façade of playfulness, leaning toward him so sharply that he drew back, blinking like a chastened child.  “And I see my best friend, feverish and miserable, sitting out here because he’d rather pretend to watch TV than be alone in his room when he’s sick.”

The acuity of this cut a little too close to the bone, and for just a moment Clint looked at her, wounded.

“You could be a little nicer.”

“I’ll be nice when you’re lying in bed and I can get a cold compress on you,” she retorted, her first intimation that she might expect him to be in his room, but that he didn’t have to be alone.  The muscles of his arm eased slightly in her grasp, and she added, “Sharktopus will be on the TV in there, too.”

“I thought you said it was Rachel Ray.”

“I get the two confused too,” she shrugged one shoulder.  “It’s the giant rows of teeth.”

Clint pushed out a sigh, finally climbing to his feet; he wasn’t so much taller than Natasha, but looked down his shoulder at her as she clung to his arm, giving him a tug in the desired direction.

“Thanks, Nat,” he murmured.

“For what?” She urged him on, unwilling to be distracted.

“You know.”

“Don’t thank me.  You’ll get the chance to return the favor.”

“You don’t get sick,” he reminded her, gait easy now, following along with her willingly.

“Then consider this prepayment on the next time you need to pull a piece of shrapnel out of my ass.”

“Hardly fair.  We both enjoy that.   _Wait—_ “, he reached out, grinning tiredly as she dropped his arm and began to retreat the other way.  “Kidding. I was absolutely kidding.”  He slung an arm about her waist, jostling her against him.  “I appreciate it, that’s all I mean.”

She went along, opening a hand at the small of his back as they squeezed into the hall.

“Anything for you, Barton, you know that.”  She ducked her head playfully as he leaned over her, pressing a too-warm kiss to her temple.  “Come on.  Bed awaits.  And Sharktopus.”

“And Rachel Ray.”

“Same difference.”


End file.
